Weeds
by missmorganpryce
Summary: She is a weed among them, an intruder with roots that choke and squeeze."


She is a weed among them, an intruder with roots that choke and squeeze. They do not want her there, and she is determined to suck them dry before leaving.  
  
She's lived her life in the wind, blowing from place to place, and finally she's found a bit of dirt to be planted in. Unfortunately for her, there are others in that dirt, and they do not want her.  
  
So she will push and shove and try to take everything they have, because they would not share. And if that means she must push the other one out of her rightful place, ostracize her from her friends and steal her lover, so be it. She never did want to come back to this plot of earth...  
  
During a late night-early morning walks in the cemetery she notices the weeds that cover some of the tombstones. Tendrils force their way through the weathered rock, and create even more cracks and crevices. Chunks of stone have fallen to the ground and lay there as destroyed remnants.  
  
So this is how people end; under the soil with a stone as a memorial. And the weeds crawl in and wreck the only thing they had left.  
  
A sudden sound startles her from the weeds, and she whirls around to confront her opponent. But he just smiles and ducks her first blows. She sighs and stops her assault.  
  
Don't sneak up on me, she tells him. She reaches up to rub his white-blonde hair and pull him closer for a kiss, clenching her fists in his black leather. It hadn't been very hard to get him; abandoned by the other one, he had been just as lonely as she had been. One night they had patrolled together and just ended up rolling around among the grassy weeds... She feels so lucky to have him. The other one no longer wanted him, but she still dangled meaningless promises in front of him just to keep him alert.  
  
He's another weed, like her. Unwanted, barely tolerated; an intruder. They belong together.  
  
They patrol the cemetery with arms around each other's waists, barely looking at the shadows, until she trips over a tree root and brings him down with her.  
  
They manage to pull each other up, laughing the whole time, when she spots a creature behind a tree. She points it out to him, and launches herself at the demon.  
  
The demon is a different kind than she's ever seen; with sharp razor nails and a leathery black skin, with slime dripping all over it. But it does not matter; it will be dead after a very short battle, she confidently thinks.  
  
It is a very short battle. The demon slashes her face with its claws and she acutely feels the pain and collapses. It reaches down and slashes her arms- then it turns and walks away.  
  
Her lover rushes to her side and scoops her up in his arms.  
  
I'm five by five, she says to him, let me go. She lifts up an arm to inspect it and watches the blood drip down.  
  
Forget that, I'm not okay, she says, her eyes widening. He looks at her arm as well and sees the blood. Sees green blood oozing its way down her cheeks, smearing all over her shirt, trickling down her arms.  
  
Later, she lies deliriously in bed, razor-like cuts all over her arms and face, bleeding on the white linen with green tendrils creeping across her face. She does not know anything she says; she doesn't know that she cursed the Slayer's legacy, the blood of the other one, the multitude of little ones that had been forced upon them, the evil that was coming-that was there...  
  
He sits next to her and holds her hand, lets her ramble on feverishly. She grabs his forearm and pulls herself up to his level and stares into his eyes.  
  
You're just like me, she whispers. You know that?  
  
Maybe, he whispers back, whatever you want, love.  
  
She sinks back into bed and tosses and turns as the poison works its way through her body. He leans forward and presses his cold lips to her forehead.  
  
We're all gonna die, she gasps, all in different ways, I'm just the first one. He says nothing.  
  
Weeds... she murmurs, her words trailing off in a spasm of pain; they're all just a bunch of weeds, lover.  
  
Shh, he whispers, shh.  
  
No one has come to visit her; no one has even noticed her illness. They simply don't care. He carried her into the house, in front of all of them, and they coldly turned their faces and ignored them.  
  
They think they are roses, she realizes as she slips off into oblivion. Plants that have raised themselves above the rest of the greens, sweet smelling and worthy. But she knows; they are no better than she is. They are just as straggly and intrusive, strange and unbelonging. They are a plot of weeds with smelly flowers, and she is just a different type of weed.  
  
In the end, they will all be pulled by the gardener.


End file.
